Nations Never Die: America
by PwnedByPineapple
Summary: A collection of historical, America-centric oneshots, based on prompts. Can be read in any order. Prompt #3: Time. Time heals all wounds, or so they say. The 400-year relationship between America and England, as seen through America's eyes.
1. Birth

**Title:** Nations Never Die - America  
><strong>Author:<strong> PwnedByPineapple  
><strong>Summary:<strong>_ A collection of historical, America-centric oneshots, based on prompts. Can be read in any order._  
><strong>RatingsWarning(s):** Will vary - nothing above T.  
><strong>Notes:<strong> This is part of a Hetalia project on deviantART called "Nations Never Die". The objective of the members is to represent a single character and create an entire headcanon for that character based on prompts. I represent America, so each oneshot posted will be centered on him. All accompanying historical explanations will be located at the end of each oneshot.

**Disclaimer: This fangirl owns nothing, though my headcanon is based on my own thoughts and opinions.**

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><p><strong>Prompt #1: Birth.<strong>  
><em>The native origins of a nation who will one day come to be known as America.<em>

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><p>It was when wildness claimed the land, when the vastness of that continent was untouched and unmarred by the relentless hands of progress, when such things as boundaries and limits had scarce meaning, that he came to know life.<p>

He knew little else. He was the rolling hills, the soaring mountains, the great rivers, the endless plains... he was the earth and the wind and the water, but he did not know such things as identity, as name, as purpose. He knew nothing of solid form and constancy, and he might have passed as quickly as he came into being, a lone manifestation as fleeting as the changing earth itself, had she not taken him in.

It was then that he learned such concepts as 'beautiful', for that she was. She was like him, but different... constant, warm, enduring. She remained even as the world around her shifted, and she taught him to do the same. And that was only the beginning of what she did, what she gave to him. She taught him how to feel, how to embrace existence that was far removed and yet closer to his essence. She set him on solid limbs, taught him to run on two feet. And she gave him things he had never experienced before. Grounded thoughts. Emotions. Family.

She was a Mother. That was the first thing he learned about family. She was _his_ Mother, and that was a distinction he learned quickly. He came to understand that he could lay claim to things, could form attachments that made his own constancy, his own existence, that much stronger. There were brothers and sisters - they were _his_ brothers and sisters.

They were many. Some were nearly as fleeting as he had almost become. Some were more grounded, but they, too, were not permanent. Only a few grew into a form like that of their Mother's, and he was one of them.

Because of this, he came to know love. To love her. To love them. And that, more than anything, anchored him firmly to the physical world.

When she brought him to meet those others that she claimed as her own - her 'people', as she described them - they were the final piece to his existence. She shared with him her claim to them, and they gave him names. He had countless names, for such people were varied, and though his names were as many as his brothers and sisters had once been, the very concept made him just like her, she who was called Mother by all.

He still roved restlessly. His feet carried him far and wide, and never was his location constant. But he did so with her, with them. He swam mighty rivers and balanced on dangerous precipices and wandered great forests at his Mother's side. He experienced the fullness of existence with his siblings, his people, constantly in motion, akin to and never forgetting what he had once been, what he had been born from.

That is, until he was drawn to the rising of the sun.

It began with a whisper, a subtle altering in his mind that he wasn't even truly aware of. All he knew was that he was called - towards the morning, towards that great expanse of endless water called the sea. The sea was as powerful and magnificent and vast as his Mother, but it was a stranger to him - or it had been. Now he was drawn to it, called by something he could not give a name to, and more and more he found himself nearing that place where the sun rose.

And though he did not even realize it, more and more of him was changing.

But she was aware of it, she who had raised him as her own. And she could do nothing to stop what she saw, what she felt. He was slipping away from her, as too many of her children were. More and more he forgot. More and more he did not answer when she called to him. Even his very appearance was altering - his skin, his hair, lightening in tone and texture.

And she knew that what called to him, what drowned out her own voice, was not the sea. It was something else, something she could not stop. It had slowly and surely begun to drain away her own vitality, into him, allowing the most innocent of youth to reclaim him.

All too soon, he did not know her. All too soon, he was no longer hers.

She watched from the shadows of her own twilight as others came, others who took him into their arms as she had once done. Soon their mark would be imprinted on him even more thoroughly than hers had been, no matter what she should try to do to reclaim him... and that was when she knew she would truly lose him.

She could only watch as he forgot - forgot her, forgot his siblings, forgot his very origin... and in doing so, was reborn yet again. Made anew. Ultimately given the singular name she utterly rejected, of one of those that had come to her lands from across the great seas:

_America._

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><p><strong>Historical Notes:<strong>

1. This draws on the concept of animism, which is the belief that everything has a spirit; it's a common concept in many Native American legends. This is also based on the progress of human evolution and advancement, with a 'spirit' or 'personification' having a gradual build of identity and shifting away from an impermanent form based on nature; the process mirrors the arrival, migration, and expansion of Native Americans and their culture, and also the shift in identity with the arrival of the Europeans. This happened to several of Native/North America's children, who originally represented various tribes.

2. In addition, the name 'America' lacks a singular identity that most nation names tend to have; I find it appropriate for him eventually becoming the "melting pot" of the world, so I'm sticking with it despite the broad meaning of the word.**  
><strong>


	2. Underworld

**Prompt #2: Underworld.**  
><em>The early 1930s. Prohibition is in its last years, but the legendary corruption of Chicago persists. Alfred observes the 'untouchable' men who are determined to change that.<em>

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><p>"This is <em>some <em>kinda contraption you got here."

Alfred F. Jones approached the scene with hands shoved into pockets, bemused admiration in his tone. It was hard to see much of the truck in the early morning gloom, on this corner of South Cicero chosen for its scant street lights, but what he did see was enough to make him childishly excited. It was like a self-propelled battering ram, and he had a grand vision of himself behind the wheel, bursting into that Capone bastard's hideout with guns blazing.

Unfortunately, it wasn't Capone himself tonight. But it _was_ one of his breweries, which the taking of would have to suffice.

Ness turned from his consultation with two of his fellows to flash Alfred a grin. Even in the dark, it gleamed. "Thanks," he said. "I was beginning to think you wouldn't show up tonight."

"Yeah, well, you already know my relationship with lateness," Alfred said, by way of explanation. Only a furious drive down the ridiculous length of the avenue had gotten him here in time. "I thought I was gonna miss out on the action!" He cast another admiring glance at the truck - a ten-ton flatbed with a steel ram attached to the front. It even had _ladders_. "So can I drive this thing?"

Leeson snorted. "That's my territory, kid. I'll let you have a ride, though."

Alfred heaved a sigh; he hadn't expected an affirmative, but he was a little disappointed nonetheless. "Oh. Right. Forgot you're the expert."

But Leeson was smiling, shaking his head. "There is nothing 'expert' about driving this thing through doors, trust me. Pure brute force, is all. Tailing's more my thing, really, but I'm still the designated driver of this little group."

Since driving happened to be a new and zealous interest of Alfred's, he would have happily questioned the man into the morning proper, but a little cough from Ness stopped him short. "Sorry to cut in," the man said, "but it's five to five. Time to jump in."

Leeson rounded the vehicle to climb into the driver's seat, and the other individual present, a small, mousy-looking, and bespectacled guy whom Alfred had never seen before, climbed into the cab as well, looking not quite pleased to be there. "Who's that?" Alfred asked with a frown, before following.

"Bureau agent," Ness said noncommittally, shrugging. "All they would send for the raid. They're a little touchy about not being invited to the last one."

Alfred shook his head. The politics of law enforcement was something he never wanted to get involved in; it was strange how such men, supposed to be tough, could get offended over the smallest of things. He moved as if to climb into the cab after the Bureau agent, grimacing as he realized how crowded it was going to be, but Ness's brief hand on his elbow made him pause.

"You have a weapon?" Ness asked, and Alfred noted that the man cradled a sawed-off shotgun in the crook of his arm.

Alfred grinned and tapped at his jacket, which concealed a .38 Colt Revolver. "Small thing," he said. "Didn't think to bring a shotgun with me."

"Whatever works," Ness said, returning the grin, and Alfred slipped into the cab.

It took several moments of adjusting, and the poor Bureau agent was rather squished between Leeson and Alfred, dwarfed by their frames. But the four of them got settled, and Ness peered down the street, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

There were other agents stationed around the target, Alfred knew. The rest of Ness's team surrounded the brewery, as insurance to guard against possible escape. Some of them would fill in as soon as Leeson had broken them through into the building, and Alfred glanced at the driver, excitement flooding through him. The rising anticipation and adrenaline was enough to banish the terrible fatigue that had plagued his body as of late, what with the depression that was racking his economy; he hadn't felt this good in a while, though he knew it was only superficial.

"It's time, Joe," was all Ness said.

As Leeson started the truck and put it into low gear, they headed for the brewery, and Alfred reached into his jacket to wrap anticipatory fingers around his concealed revolver.

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><p><em>He first met Eliot Ness on the steps of Chicago's Bureau of Prohibition, just as the man was leaving.<em>

_"Mr. Ness! Sorry to catch you like this. I meant to get here earlier, but..." Alfred grimaced and let the statement trail off. He wasn't the best at keeping prompt times these days, especially not with all the problems he'd been dealing with. "My name's Alfred Jones. I work for Washington, and that's all I'm going to say on it right now. But here..." He fumbled with his jacket for a moment and withdrew an envelope, handing it to the man. "A letter from Johnson confirming my identity."_

_Ness took the letter rather curiously and scanned quickly over the U. S. District Attorney's explanation. Satisfied, the young man nodded and gave Alfred an appraising glance. "And does Washington want something?"_

_"Not technically," Alfred said truthfully. "But... can we not talk here? It's kind of open." Then he chuckled. "I'd offer to buy you a drink and do this the right way, but unfortunately..."_

_Ness smiled. "No, that would look rather bad, wouldn't it? My office, then."_

_Within the Bureau's walls and behind a firmly closed door, Alfred felt a little better about opening up. "My boss is rather anxious to have Capone put away, y'see," he explained conversationally, seated in front of Ness's desk with the other opposite him. "So I've been charged to observe the proceedings of the investigation for a little while."_

_"Your boss?"_

_"Well, most people refer to him as Mr. President."_

_Ness's eyes widened. He seemed to look at Alfred in a new light, leaning forward on the desk with his arms folded. "You work for Hoover?"_

_"You could say I'm an unofficial representative of the interests of the United States," Alfred said with a grin. God, he loved telling people that. "Of course, this means that we expect my name to stay out of any official records, if you know what I mean."_

_It was obvious that Ness did know. "I see," he said slowly. "It's an honor to have you, then." His eyes narrowed in thought. "You said you are supposed to observe the investigation?"_

_"Something along those lines," Alfred agreed. "I was kinda hoping I could help a little, too. I prefer this to the tax evasion angle, that's for sure." He gave another grin, a tired one. Anything was preferable to economics, especially lately. "Truth be told, I think half the reason my boss gave me this assignment was to make me take a break. Wanted me to have a little excitement, I guess."_

_Ness nodded in understanding. "Rough time of things?" he asked, rather sympathetically._

_"Let's just say the economy is kicking me squarely in the ass right now."_

_Ness gave a humorless laugh. "God help us all when it comes to that matter," he said, shaking his head. "And you say you want to help?"_

_Alfred nodded. "Sure do. And before you ask, I know my way around guns and war and hard work. I've killed men before in honest battles, and I'm damn ready to see Capone pay for his murders in dirty ones." There was no boast in his words, only simple, stated facts, and Ness seemed impressed by this little speech._

_"I see," he said again, and he stood suddenly, giving a nod. "Well, Mr. Jones, you're in luck. Two of my men pinpointed another of Capone's breweries earlier today, and we're in the process of mapping it out and planning the raid." He gave a little wave, with Johnson's letter still in his hand. "I'll need to run this by Johnson myself - just as a precaution. I don't doubt your words." Here he grinned at Alfred. "Standard procedure, is all. That should be done by tomorrow. Why don't you come back in tomorrow morning to meet the team, once that's all cleared? You're going to need to get to know them if you're going to work with us."_

_Smiling, Alfred also rose from his seat. "Sounds like a plan." He reached across the desk to shake Ness's hand; the man's grip was firm and direct. "I look forward to working with you, then, Mr. Ness."_

_"Likewise."_

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><p>"Well," Alfred said, his ears still ringing from the loud clap that had accompanied the breaking down of the brewery's doors. He gazed, rather confused, at the black wall that reared up before them, which created a narrow, empty space between itself and the outer wall, barely bigger than the length of two trucks. "I wasn't expecting a garage."<p>

"Must be behind it," an accented voice said, and Alfred glanced back to see Lahart and Gardner emerging from behind the truck. It was Lahart who had spoken; the hefty Irishman had a kind of devil-may-care grin as he approached, shotgun in hand. "Well, what're we waiting for? Look for doors!"

Swinging doors, to be precise. Gardner found them first, and his signal brought them running. The doors were not locked, and a solid kick from the former football player had them swinging wide open.

Alfred didn't have time to be impressed by the interior. A quick assessment with his less human senses told him there were five operators inside; one for each of Ness's men plus himself, if you didn't count the little Prohibition agent who hung back behind them. As Lahart gleefully declared them as federal agents and to drop everything 'cause this was a raid, Alfred darted forward first. Any potential gunfire would be drawn to him, which couldn't kill him as it could kill any of the others. However, the complete surprise at the sudden intrusion meant that the brewery men were in disarray.

A quick movement and flick had Alfred's revolver out, and he pointed it casually at the man whom his nation senses identified as Steve Svododa... otherwise known as one of Capone's ace brewers. "I wouldn't do that," he said, as Svododa reached inside his own jacket. "My fingers are a bit itchy today."

Reluctantly, Svododa raised his hands and directed a glare at Alfred, who returned with a purposefully irritating smile. A quick glance told him that the rest of the operators had already been subdued; Ness hadn't chosen his team carefully for nothing. Other members of the team, armed with sawed-off shotguns and crowbars and even an axe or two, were coming through back doors and the front now, swarming inside and examining every inch of the place.

"Are you always so reckless?" Ness asked of Alfred. He was cuffing another man, handing the operator off to Cloonan, and he gave Alfred a grin that also managed to look disapproving.

"Always," Alfred affirmed. No use lying about it, and he wasn't about to explain his motivations. Besides, Ness could hardly claim to be different. "You don't need to worry about me. Been doing this sort of thing for a long time."

"A young'un like you?" Lahart called teasingly.

"I'm a lot older than I look!" Alfred protested, grinning.

"What, twenty-two instead of twenty?"

On Ness's order, Leeson and Friel went running for the other two cars they'd parked nearby, to begin ferrying the captured men into proper custody, and Alfred flapped his free hand at Gardner. "Don't have cuffs," he said apologetically, keeping his gaze half-trained on Svododa, who looked the shifty sort. "And watching this guy is making me jumpy."

With a nod, Gardner came forward, holding his shotgun in an almost nonchalant fashion; he dwarfed even Alfred with his size. He handed the weapon to Alfred and produced an extra pair of cuffs, and Alfred safely stowed away his revolver once he was sure that Svododa was not going anywhere. He handed the shotgun back to Gardner with a grateful nod, and the man led the brewer away.

The nation joined Ness, who was observing the interior of the brewery with great satisfaction. It was an impressive haul. Seven huge vats lined the room, and Alfred estimated that they could each hold over three hundred gallons. There were also two trucks within, halfway loaded. That, coupled with the five captures, made this raid successful indeed.

"If it's always exciting like this, I see why you do it," Alfred commented.

Ness shrugged. "This raid turned out better than the last one. And it's more planning than anything." He gave Alfred a wry look. "We all know how much you love that."

Alfred made a face. The majority of his prior observation of Ness's team had involved their planning of this raid... and he wasn't exactly the most patient of people when it came to strategizing. "Well, this definitely makes up for it."

Ness's sideways glance was thoughtful and keen. Alfred fidgeted a bit under the scrutiny and was about to ask if he had something on his face when Ness spoke suddenly. "Say... do you want to join the team?"

The offer was completely unexpected, and Alfred's eyes grew wide. "You serious?"

"You married?"

Alfred chuckled at the thought and the oddness of the question, though he did recall Ness mentioning something about being unmarried as part of his criteria. "No. Don't have that luxury."

Ness nodded slowly. "Something tells me you could handle yourself more than well in a real fight, too; today's already shown me that you've got the courage. You're also honest to a fault," the man added, shaking his head, and Alfred had the decency to look rather sheepish. "And my men like you."

Alfred's grin was delighted. "I'll talk Cubs and Bears with Lahart any day."

"Damn near distracted him from the planning, you did," Ness said with a roll of his eyes. "… What I'm trying to say is, you fit the criteria. And I like you too."

"I'm glad I meet your approval," Alfred said; his grin faded a little, and he sighed. He kind of wished he could accept. It sure was a nice change. "I'm flattered by the offer, but… my job's a bit too demanding at the moment."

Ness looked a little disappointed, but he nodded again. "That's understandable," he said. "Well, it'll still stand, so long as there's a need for us."

Alfred gave a little shrug. "Who knows... I might show up every now and again. I want the bastard caught as much as you do." Alfred's face darkened momentarily. His own opinion of Prohibition was less than favorable, seeing how it created messes like this, and enforcing it wasn't exactly something he was keen on. It wasn't the bootlegging aspect of Capone that pissed Alfred off, however... it was everything else. Damned criminals. But his mood brightened just as fast. "I'll be honest... this was fun."

Ness grinned outright then. "I agree."

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><p>Alfred ended his observation only with reluctance. Most people wouldn't consider such a thing to be a break, but with everything else that was wrong... well, he'd learned to live with the constant aching. Stupid economy - he didn't want to go back to dealing with it, no sir, but it wasn't like he had a choice in the matter.<p>

"Thanks," he told Ness simply, when the evening of the next day came around, and Alfred was set to go back to Washington.

The man was clearing off his desk, lifting a newspaper to tuck under his arm as he prepared to leave his office as well. "For what?" he asked, glancing back as he picked up his briefcase.

"Oh, you know, just in general. For the work you're doing, too." Alfred nodded appreciatively. "You'll get enough evidence to nab 'im, I know it. Well," he amended, "you or Wilson. But it's satisfying to know that this is going to piss Capone off."

"Which is, in part, my intention. Angry men make mistakes."

"Get 'im nice and riled for me, then," Alfred told him. "But be careful, too. There's a reason this city is infamous."

And there was nothing but the reckless courage of youth in Ness's eyes as he assured Alfred that he'd take every precaution. Alfred left him then, with an amiable goodbye and a promise that he'd show up again if he could.

He would, too. There was something invigorating about pursuing Chicago's underworld, and it had returned to him, however temporarily, an energy that the depression had been stealing from his very body. And he liked these men, too. Painstakingly chosen for their remarkable attributes from among the legendary corruption and graft of Chicago's Prohibition force, there was no doubting that they were the kind of men Alfred respected.

As he left the Bureau building to flag down a cab, he silently wished them luck.

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><p><strong>Historical Notes:<br>**

1. The Eighteenth Amendment to the U.S. Constitution and the Volstead Act established Prohibition - in a broad sense, the banning of the manufacture and sale of intoxicating drinks. While overall alcoholic consumption did drop, Prohibition had the negative effect of creating a demand for illegal alcohol that caused organized crime to grow massively. Alcohol bootlegging became a raging business, most notably in Chicago, and corruption in law enforcement meant that it went mostly unchecked. Al Capone was the most notorious gangster of the era, known for his surprisingly public life and his cruelty. He headed the Chicago Outfit and made a huge profit in bootlegging and smuggling alcohol.

2. The Untouchables were a group of men headed by Eliot Ness who were charged with attacking Capone's operations under the Volstead Act - that is, enforcing the law and raiding Capone's breweries and stills. The name 'Untouchables' refers to the fact that they, unlike most law enforcement officials in Chicago at the time, could not be bribed or bought; the name came about after the events in this fic, however. Even though they did serious damage to Capone's bootlegging activities, it was actually through the investigative work of Frank J. Wilson that Capone was finally jailed; they got him on the charge of income tax evasion. The attack on Capone had come from two angles - Volstead Act and income taxes - and it was the financial angle that proved the surest way of catching him.

3. Everything in this fic is as historically accurate as I could make it. Decent resources on the Untouchables are difficult to find, and there's no telling what has been fabricated or embellished by time. However, every person mentioned was a real individual, and as far as I can tell, this raid actually happened.

4. Eliot Ness is an interesting individual. He's been portrayed many times in various movies and TV shows, but the man himself, at the time, was apparently a young man with a flair for publicity and a great deal of reckless courage and strong ideals. In some ways, he actually reminds me of Alfred, which is why I think they could easily be friends.

5. Incidentally, my headcanon!Alfred didn't like Prohibition in the slightest. I imagine he likes a good drink every now and then, but the real problem for him was the crime that Prohibition spawned. Some estimates say that the entirety of the criminal underworld was making more money than the federal government itself during Prohibition. Not to mention a host of other small nasty things that Prohibition brought to the forefront and the sheer hypocrisy of the era when it came to private drinking.


	3. Time

****Notes:** **The specification for this particular prompt was to explore the relationship between your own character and someone else's, chosen at random. And that character ended up being England. I was very happy about this.**  
><strong>Recommended Listening:<strong>** "The Cave" and "Little Lion Man" by Mumford and Sons

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><p><strong>Prompt #3: Time.<strong>  
><em>Time heals all wounds, or so they say. The 400-year relationship between America and England, as seen through America's eyes.<em>

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><p><em>"Take all the courage you have left - waste it on fixing all the problems that you made in your own head."<em>

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><p>Time heals all wounds, or so they say.<p>

Even betrayal? Alfred has often wanted to ask. He's thought - hoped, dreaded, prayed - it might be true.

"How _could _you?" he asks, hurt dripping from his voice - puppy hurt, mock hurt, and he's so practiced that he can pass it off as fake/real with ease. Maybe even enough to convince Arthur and himself that none of the offense is genuine.

He sees the eyeroll before it comes; for all of his temperamental nature, Arthur is dreadfully predictable at times. "Ask Cameron," the English nation snaps, clearly fed up with the subject. Jesus, his patience is thinner than ever. Alfred only brought it up five minutes ago! "I never said it."

"You didn't argue either," Alfred points out petulantly, and of course, it's only to get under Arthur's skin, a terribly easy thing to do.

"Yes, because arguing with my boss over trivial things is a perfect way to spend my time." Sarcasm infuses Arthur's voice as only he can manage, and he still hasn't looked up from his newspaper.

Alfred tries not to be annoyed by this. It doesn't matter, after all; they're just a few simple words, they really don't mean a thing, or at least that's what he tells himself. This doesn't have anything to do with the fact that they're words he's found himself grateful for over the past several decades - particularly in recent times, because sometimes he wonders if the whole world is against him. Maybe it's lingering paranoia from bygone decades, or maybe it's just stress, but it's hard to stop his thoughts from wandering in that direction.

But Arthur... Arthur is with him, right?

"Whatever," he says, and all of those thoughts manage to condense themselves into that one word.

The English nation finally looks up - perhaps he can hear them in those three syllables - and Alfred sticks a tongue out at him for good measure. With another eyeroll, Arthur deliberately closes the newspaper and sets it down on the conference table, casting a furtive glance around him. The room is mostly devoid of other nations; the break only began a few minutes ago, and Alfred had found Arthur still in his seat, the Englishman perhaps hoping to get a little peace and quiet if he hung back.

"Churchill must be laughing at me from the grave right now," Arthur mutters. He leans forward in his seat, then scowls at the fact that Alfred is seated on the table itself and therefore towers over him. "Look. I know you're not stupid, Alfred. There's a reason we've been allies for all these years now, and you know it."

"'Cause it's beneficial," Alfred mutters sullenly, and truthfully, he's beginning to surprise even himself. He's never worried about this before - at least, not this much - and after all, what does he care what his erstwhile older brother thinks? There's a reason he rebelled, and he's done quite well on his own, thank you.

The memories come almost unbidden, and he recalls wilder times, when only a sliver of the continent was his. More than that, he remembers his brother - his big brother, as he used to call Arthur, and he remembers being small and happy and carefree. It hadn't lasted long, hardly more than a century, but it's still so vivid in his mind. Simpler times, they almost seemed, when all he'd cared about was the next time he got to see his brother.

"Not just that, you git," Arthur says, giving Alfred a light punch on the arm to recall his momentarily wandering attention.

Alfred thinks briefly of revolution and bloodshed and pain and hatred, and he rubs his arm in mock hurt. "Then what?" he asks, sharper than he intends. "S'not like you care for my company or anything."

They hadn't cared for each other's company for a long time after that; so much, in fact, that they'd come to blows again. Alfred's never really appreciated the number 1812 since then, and a second fight hadn't made it better, either. All he remembers after that is anger over many decades - so much anger and petty hatred, enough that he'd even been able to spare some for Arthur during his own Civil War. Even while he'd been metaphorically and mentally ripped apart, Alfred had found it in his heart to hate his once-brother for his actions.

Arthur looks reluctant, as if he doesn't want to say anything further, but with some difficulty, he manages to. "Believe it or not, I prefer your company over half these morons," he says, and even with these words, he's still glaring, as if daring Alfred to tell someone.

"Shut up," Alfred says with a snort, an automatic reaction, because since when? Sure, relations between their respective governments and people are great, but the two of them still have trouble speaking civilly to each other. It's been like that ever since the end of the nineteenth century, when things had slowly, painstakingly begun to improve. It took being broken in two for Alfred to realize how tired hatred made him feel, and even then, it had been a delicate dance with Arthur, with their relationship - such a gradual thawing that it had taken until the first World War for something, anything to truly happen.

Then again, Arthur's always been like that, and Alfred's never really helped matters.

"I'm being serious," Arthur tells him, gritting his teeth, and Alfred suddenly understands that he is. Maybe it really is just the stress Alfred's been dealing with, causing him to look over his shoulder and fear every step he takes, every eye on him. To fear that he's doing everything wrong, that he'll be abandoned for it.

Conflicting interests had driven him to Arthur's side in that war, and he hadn't had time to analyze his own thoughts and motivations and feelings before he'd found himself locked away on his own continent once again, unwilling and unable to step any further. At least, not until the second war, the horrific war, where he'd emerged the strongest. At the height of the world, a place Arthur had held for so long. But he'd found, deep within himself, that he was actually glad of Arthur's presence, of that 'special relationship' Churchill had named back in '46. He didn't like to be alone.

"I wouldn't have stuck with you all these decades if I didn't like you," Arthur continues, and there's the undeniable ring of truth in his voice - he's actually trying for reassurance, Alfred notes in amazement, as if he'd truly have some say in that matter. As if their personal feelings mean anything in the grand scheme of the world. "Beneficial or not. I raised you, after all, and I didn't fail completely."

All those decades had been rocky ones, to be sure. Between wars and threats of communism and fights over canals and dizzying technology and most of all a widening world, one couldn't expect everything to be perfect or easy. And it hadn't been. Truth be told, Alfred had only become increasingly confused as the twenty-first century approached. Decisions had been harder and harder to make, and a prevailing worry and guilt and uncertainty seemed to hang over everything.

But Arthur, among a few, had stuck with him. Through all the pain of the past decade - terrorism and more war and more uncertainty and division - he'd been steady, in his own Arthur-ish way. Alfred can't express in words how grateful it makes him feel and how scared he is that one day Arthur - and the others he cares for - won't back him up. Will let him fall. But it's just paranoia, he tells himself.

"Well," Alfred says, more touched than he will ever, ever let on in a million years. "Thanks. I don't hate you, too."

Arthur chuckles despite himself, because really, saying 'I love you' is overrated and frankly a bit of a dangerous statement when you're a nation. Not to mention awkward. But both of them can settle on an alternative.

"Besides," Arthur says, "I don't think India is much interested in pursuing the same kind of thing." One bushy eyebrow raises, and Arthur gives Alfred a shrewd glance. "And so you _do _get jealous, git."

"I do _not_," Alfred protests indignantly, because there's no way he can possibly explain the fear, the lingering pain, and there's already been too much insinuated mush for one day. "I just think your politicians need to be a bit more creative, jeez."

"Yes, well... as you say, _whatever_." Arthur's mocking tone is back in full force, which is just fine by Alfred.

That's the Arthur he knows best, after all, the one he's known all this time.

* * *

><p><em>"But it was not your fault, but mine, and it was your heart on the line. I really fucked it up this time, didn't I, my dear?"<em>

* * *

><p><strong>Historical Notes:<strong>

1. In 2010, Britain's Prime Minister David Cameron was pursuing what had been termed a "new special relationship" between the UK and India. The term 'special relationship' comes from the 'Iron Curtain' speech made by Winston Churchill at Westminster College in Fulton, Missouri, in 1946.

2. The rest of the history very briefly mentioned in this fic dates vaguely back to 1607, or the founding of Jamestown, and continues all the way to the present. If you are that interested, there is a thing called Google obviously at your disposal.


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